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From the bleak mountain and the naked plain;
And gold and gems with artificial blaze,
Supply the ſickly ſun's declining rays.
But ſoon, returning on the weſtern gale,
She ſeeks the boſom of the graſſy vale:
There, wrapt in careleſs eaſe, attunes the lyre
To the wild warblings of the woodland quire:
The daiſied turf her humble throne ſupplies,
And early primroſes around her riſe.
We'll follow where the ſmiling goddeſs leads,
Thro' tangled foreſts or enamel'd meads;
O'er pathleſs hills her airy form we'll chaſe,
In ſilent glades her fairy footſteps trace:
Small pains there needs her footſteps to purſue,
She cannot fly from friendſhip, and from you.
Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds,
And o'er her boſom breathe the weſtern winds.
Already now the ſnow-drop dares appear,